


glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife

by inkk



Category: Metallica
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bittersweet, Crying, First Time, Ice Cream Parlors, M/M, Motels, Summer, Tenderness, what is this? existential porn? i have no idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26998855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk
Summary: The motel itself is a shithole; no surprises there. Lars has grown up across the street from it for years. He’s watched firsthand as it’s fallen further into disrepair with every passing year, like a timelapse of some strange, decomposing animal carcass.(In which Lars uses a mailbox, an ice cream float, and a creaky single bed to get what he wants.)
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote 95% of this back in February and then just left it to gather dust, so... better late than never!!  
> as always, this one was inspired by my ravenous need to project onto emotional support celebrities and nothing else.  
> for the purposes of our story, Lars is 17, james is ~23, & canon has officially been put out to pasture.  
> -  
> aaaand on another note, safe sex is [tony the tiger voice] grrrreat! we all know that fic =/= reality... but please use a condom, lots of lube, lots of prep, and be aware that missionary may not be the ideal position for first-time anal sex 💕
> 
> look at these to set the mood: [1](https://damydevito.tumblr.com/post/632551793014030336/motel-register-free-hbo-color-tv-white-noise) / [2](https://shotgunmessiahs.tumblr.com/post/190638994798/1970s-motels-by-mike-mandel)

+

Motel kids. That’s what they call them.

Every summer, they roll into town alongside the first heat wave: families travelling in Station Wagons with dented bumpers and boxes of non-perishable food items, parking out front while shrieking children in dirty clothes pile out onto the asphalt.

Lars sits on the curb and watches from the opposite side of the street. Like a parade, he thinks, idly looking on as a little girl chases a boy around the parking lot, the two of them weaving between cars with reckless abandon.

It looks like fun. Ten years ago, he might have wanted to go join in. But seventeen is much too old for any of that, and for now, he’s content to sit here in the shade of a tree to watch it all unfold. The cars seem to come in convoys every year — four or five at a time, usually the same ones year after year. It’s like watching the circus come to town.

The cherry-red pickup truck off to the left is new, though; he’s sure of that. And he definitely doesn't recognize either of the figures who climb out.

Lars squints across the street, catching a flash of long, gold hair and gangly legs emerging from the passenger side. Someone too tall to be a kid. As he watches, the man turns and says something to his equally-long haired companion, who’s casually lighting a cigarette with one hip leaned up against the driver’s side door.

Bell bottoms, Lars notes with mild disdain. He focuses back on the blond one, eyes tracking his movements as he grabs a cardboard box out of the truck bed and wanders off.

Maybe ‘man’ is the wrong word. Lars can’t get a good look at either of their faces from this distance, but the gangliness of the blond one’s legs doesn't quite belie adulthood.

Stuck somewhere in between, maybe.

The motel itself is a shithole; no surprises there. Lars has grown up across the street from it for years. He’s watched firsthand as it’s fallen further into disrepair with every passing year, like a timelapse of some strange, decomposing animal carcass.

The stucco exterior might have been pink at one point, but it’s long since been bleached into a weak orange by the relentless sun. The lack of air conditioning ensures the windows are always propped open, off-white curtains drifting out in the faint breeze and carrying with them the sound of the restless inhabitants inside. The pool was emptied four years ago and has been left that way ever since.

In June, the motel is exciting; it's a hub of fresh activity, with hopscotch boards drawn in the parking lot, riotous games of tag, and generally always a few bikes or trikes lying around.

The mothers and fathers are out working all day, Lars knows. They take up seasonal jobs to pay the rent — down at the railroad, or nearby farms, or teaching summer school. This part of town is safe enough that the children usually end up left to their own devices, permitted to wander around the building and make friends with the other brats as they please.

Book a room in June, check out in August.

Hell of a way to live.

Lars would be lying if he said he didn't envy that freedom.

Now that school is over, he doesn't have much to do, aside from listening to music and practicing his serve in the backyard. His mor calls him lazy and ungrateful, asks him what his father would think, and then they have daily screaming matches over his refusal to apply to universities.

Whatever.

As it stands, he has plenty of time leftover to do some harmless people-watching, and he makes a point of keeping an eye out for the two newcomers — Blondie and Bell-Bottoms, as he’s taken to calling them.

It never takes long for the microcosm across the road to fall into a routine. The sound of trucks backing out of the lot becomes commonplace at eight in the morning, and again at five when the fathers come home and the smell of barbecue begins to permeate the heat of the evening.

Lars’ main point of contact with the motel’s residents is the mailbox at the end of the street. Along with the boxes corresponding to each of the houses in the neighbourhood, there are also six boxes along the bottom reserved for ‘Extended Stay Guests’.

It’s where he talks to Blondie for the first time.

The day is winding down by the time his mor sends him out to check the mail. He doesn't bother putting on shoes before jogging off down the street in his shorts and dirty Deep Purple shirt, the last orange rays of evening sunlight shining low through the neighbours’ trees.

He doesn't see Blondie until he rounds the side of the box. Lars is caught up in his thoughts, one of the new Iron Maiden tracks spinning through his head on repeat, and his heels hit the pavement hard as he comes to an abrupt halt, narrowly avoiding running right into the guy.

“Hi,” Lars says, the word coming out in a surprised exhale.

Blondie looks up from the letter he’s examining. He gives Lars a quick, suspicious once-over. “Hi.”

The guy looks even younger up close. His cheeks are sunburned and pockmarked with acne scars, golden hair falling around his face in messy waves. There's a smear of black across the left side of his chin.

Lars licks his lips, heart beating faster. He offers a hand to shake. “I’m Lars,” he introduces himself. “I live across the road.”

“James,” Blondie replies, taking his hand with a firm grip. His palm is warm and calloused. He lets go right away.

Lars crosses his arms and leans his weight on one leg. He looks up at James for a second, studying the squint of his blue eyes in the glow.

“I’ve seen you and your friend around,” he finally says. “You guys staying at the motel?”

James hesitates, then nods once. “Yeah.”

“You working?”

“Down at the tracks.”

“I can tell,” Lars says, motioning to James’ jaw. “You've got oil on your face.”

“Oh,” James says absently. He makes a vague attempt to wipe it off with the back of his hand, but only succeeds in smearing it further.

Lars can't help but to smile. “Hazard of the job?”

“Guess so,” James says with a little shrug, the side of his mouth curling in faint amusement. He stands there for a second, not quite meeting Lars’ eyes, then taps his keys against his thigh and says, “Well, I’d better go.”

“Right,” Lars says. “Seeya, James.”

“Seeya, Lars.”

He turns and saunters off, heading back towards the bustle of the motel. Lars watches the easy slope of his shoulders as he goes.

There are no letters in the mailbox, but Lars doesn't care. He’s not expecting anything, anyways. As he runs home, feet stinging as they slap against the sidewalk, he can still hear James’ voice replaying like an echo.

When he was younger, he used to hate the way Americans say his name. Still does, sometimes. It grates on him. Their mouths make it sound crude when they draw it out — they butcher the A and shove unneeded emphasis onto the R, making the whole thing sound rounded and clunky and utterly foreign. After a few months, that's just who he became:

_Larrrs. Larz. LaRs._

It doesn't seem to matter as much anymore, though. It’s been years since he was a new immigrant.

He’ll probably never sound like a real American, but at least he can say his Z-sounds, now.

Lars keeps a closer tab on the mailbox after that. There are never any letters addressed to the Ulrich family, but he starts checking it every night just the same. James is there almost every time.

“How old are you?” Lars asks him one night, leaning a shoulder up against the cooling metal of the postbox.

“Twenty-three in August,” James replies, turning the key in the lock. “Why?”

Lars frowns at him, pensive. “Just wondering.”

James laughs a little as he swings the little door open. He reaches in and withdraws what looks to be a postcard, then closes it and turns the key back to its locked position. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“You look younger.”

Lars rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”

James shrugs. “Just saying.”

The two of them stand there for a second, looking at each other. James is first to break eye contact.

“You gonna check your mail?” he asks.

Lars looks down, flipping his own mail key over in his palm. The metal glints in the sunlight. “We never get any mail,” he admits. “I just came to talk to you.”

“Oh,” James says.

It’s Lars’ turn to shrug. He turns his gaze to the motel for a second, then back to his dirty shoes. “You been to Salvador’s Deli yet?”

“No,” James says. “Is that downtown?”

“Yeah. They’ve got the best ice cream floats in the state.” When Lars looks back up, James’ expression has taken on a guarded look. “I could take you sometime, if you want,” he offers, jutting his chin against the swell of uncertainty in his chest. 

James doesn't reply right away. He shifts on the heels of his worn cowboy boots and lets out a quiet puff of breath, then says, “I don't know if that's a good idea.”

Lars scoffs. “Why not?”

“I work late,” James says. He’s not meeting Lars’ eyes.

“So we can go late. They're open ‘til midnight in the summer.”

“I don't even know you, Lars.”

“Duh, neither do I. That's why I keep talking to you.”

When James doesn't reply, Lars sighs and crosses his arms across his narrow chest, his cheeks hot. “Nevermind, then. Forget it. I just thought it’d be fun.”

James clears his throat. “It wouldn't be a good idea,” he repeats.

“Sure,” Lars says. He lifts one shoulder in a sullen shrug and takes a step back, turning to leave. “Whatever, man. I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” James says. “Seeya.”

Lars replays the disaster in his head for the next three days. A part of him shrinks in humiliation as he recalls James’ stiff posture and blank expression, with that gruff, closed-off look on his face.

Jesus Christ. He might as well have been wearing a sign on his forehead: Lars Ulrich, Flaming Faggot.

The worst part of it all, though, is that when James laughed, his gaze had flicked over to rest on Lar’s thighs, and for a split second Lars had thought maybe, just _maybe_ —

He flips over and groans his frustration into the fabric of his pillow.

Whatever, man.

James stops coming to the postbox at night, but Lars continues the routine regardless. His pride is wounded, but not quite enough to smother his indignation.

It takes five entire days before James comes back. Lars sees him coming and leans back against the box, watching him approach. James stops two feet away with the brim of his dirty baseball cap tipped down low. Waiting.

“You're back,” Lars says neutrally.

“Yeah,” James says. There's a pause. “You’re, uh. You're standing in front of my box.”

Lars takes a lazy half-step sideways. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” James mutters. When he reaches down to unlock it, his hand nearly brushes against Lars’ hip.

He pulls out another postcard, this time. Lars is close enough to catch a glimpse of palm trees in all their oversaturated glory, and a message scrawled in blue pen on the back.

“You sure get a lot of mail,” he remarks.

James closes the box and pulls back the key. “My friends like to travel.”

He hesitates for a second, looking down at Lars with an unreadable expression, then clears his throat and tugs at the brim of his hat. “Listen, I, uh— If you still want to go, I’ll go with you. To the deli.”

Lars studies his face. “Changed your mind?” he asks, doing his best to look unimpressed.

“No,” James says. “Maybe. I don't know. Whatever.” He shifts his weight and crosses his arms, the postcard held tight between his thumb and forefinger. “I get off at five tomorrow night, if you want.”

Lars cocks his head and raises his eyebrows. He waits a second, letting James sweat, then clicks his tongue and flashes a grin. “Sure,” he says, “I can do that. Get cleaned up and I’ll meet you here at seven.”

When he races home with his heart beating fast, he can feel James’ eyes following him down the block.

His feet hardly touch the ground.

After bidding his mor _godnat_ and brushing his teeth that night, he finds himself looking in the mirror. He studies his reflection carefully — cataloguing the chubby cheeks and snub nose, dull green eyes, bangs in disarray, and that single zit beginning to form on the right side of his chin — and smiles. It feels like triumph.

Maybe he was right about James, after all.

The next night, James shows up precisely on the hour: not one minute early, not one minute late. Exactly as expected. His hair is combed back into a low ponytail, and he’s changed into clean jeans and a button-down flannel — a fact Lars can’t help but to feel vaguely flattered by, considering he's never seen James wearing anything without grease stains or mud on it.

He doesn't say much on the walk downtown, but it's not uncomfortable. Lars gets the feeling that James is just a naturally quiet person. And besides, Lars is more than capable of talking enough for both of them, anyways.

It takes until they're sitting at one of the corner tables with root beer floats before James finally asks the inevitable question: “Where are you from?”

Lars smiles. He drags his straw through the heap of melting ice cream at the top of his glass and licks the sugar from his lips. “København,” he says slowly, noticing the way James’ gaze tracks the motion. “That’s in Danmark. What about you?”

“Here,” James says. “Well, originally, at least. Cliff and I live up in the bay area now, but I grew up around Downey.”

“And now you're back.”

James fixes his gaze somewhere over Lars’ shoulder. “For the summer, anyways.”

The two of them walk closer on the way home. Almost knocking shoulders. It’s colder out now that the sun has fallen, and Lars hugs his arms against his stomach, wishing he had worn something heavier than his too-small athletic shorts and faded Budgie t-shirt.

When they finally come to a natural stop in front of the post box, it feels like there’s a subtle kind of panic crawling up his throat.

 _don’t go_ , it says. _don't leave. if you let him get away, you’ll never get him back._

James shifts his weight and clears his throat. “Your parents expecting you home?” he asks, dispelling the awful silence.

Lars looks up at him and shakes his head. “Not until morning.”

And then, because he’s feeling brave, and because he’s feeling stupid, and because he’s feeling reckless, he reaches out and hooks his fingers into James’.

James doesn’t pull away.

“Take me with you,” Lars says.

He wishes he could say the motel is nicer from the inside, but it's not. It’s leagues away from anything he ever imagined as a child, and yet somehow exactly as he expected; peeling wallpaper, dented furniture, and two rickety single beds with cheap mattresses, all smelling faintly of mothballs.

A muscle twitches in James’ jaw as he watches Lars take in their surroundings. He’s embarrassed, maybe. Defensive. He shouldn't be. 

“You want a drink?”

“Sure,” Lars agrees. He takes a seat on the bed and kicks off his shoes, leaning back on his elbows as he watches James pull a bottle of Southern Comfort and two plastic cups out of the nightstand. He licks his lips. “Is your friend gonna be back anytime soon?”

James wordlessly shakes his head. Lars watches him pour for both of them, feeling a twist like pity in his gut when he notices James’ hands are shaking.

“ _Skål_ ,” Lars tells him as he accepts the proffered cup, reaching out to knock the rims together. He takes a swallow and watches James do the same.

“C’mere,” he says, when it becomes apparent James isn't going to make the first move.

James hesitates. For a second, Lars thinks he's about to say no.

“C’mere,” he repeats again, a little more gently, and James does. He sits on the bed next to Lars, but maintains a careful distance, facing forward. When Lars puts a hand on his thigh, he flinches and goes stiff.

Lars withdraws as if stung. “You don't do this often, do you?” he asks after a moment.

James scoffs. “Do you?”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

James looks down at his lap. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not— It doesn't mean anything. Fuck. I’m just…”

“It’s okay,” Lars says after a second. “It’s just me.”

“I know.”

“We don't have to do anything if you don't want to,” he says. “We can just talk.”

“I know.”

There's a pause, then; a delicate thing, hanging between them—

“But I do,” James continues, halting and defeated. “I want to.”

He says it quietly, like a confession. Like an admittance of guilt, spoken to another guilty party. Lars wonders if that's the worst part for him.

When he reaches out again, he does it slowly. This time, James lets him. The muscle of his leg is warm beneath Lars’ palm.

“I want to, too,” Lars says. “I want you to touch me.”

James is hesitant at first. His arm seems to raise in slow motion, the barest touch of his fingers alighting upon Lars’ waist, but the feeling is heady all the same. It rushes up Lar’s spine, resonating somewhere deep inside of him, sending his blood pumping and his heart pounding. He draws a shaky breath and knocks the rest of the drink back, then leans over to set the cup on the edge of the nightstand. He turns to face James.

The way the dim light catches on the little wisps of hair that have escaped his ponytail makes them glint orange, like a soft, frizzy halo. He looks uncertain when Lars leans in and lifts a hand to cup his cheek.

Lars hesitates. “Ja?”

James nods, once. “Okay.”

So Lars kisses him. James’ facial hair is wiry and kind of ticklish against his upper lip, his hand big and warm where his fingers seem to spasm against Lar’s waist. When Lars finally leans back to breathe, the blue of James’ eyes looks even richer than before, eclipsed by lamplight and his dilated pupils.

Lars licks his lips, rubbing one thumb over that spot just in front of James’ ear. “Good?”

James nods again. Lars takes that as permission to sling one leg over him, straddling James’ thighs so that they’re face to face. James’ hands — both, now — slip down to his hips, catching in the waistband of his shorts. That same, strange shiver runs through him again. It’s electric, and exhilarating, and it makes his guts feel like they’re full of snakes.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says, leaning in to mouth at the side of James’ jaw. He doesn’t suck hard enough to leave a mark, but enough that he can revel in the way it makes James’ breath hitch.

Hickeys were an art he learned from Dave, actually. Subtle kinds of foreplay. But Dave is the last thing on his mind right now; this is already better than any half-drunken hookup or mediocre, fumbling blowjob he's ever given, and all he's doing is sitting on James’ lap in a janky motel room.

“Fuck,” James says. “Can you— Take your shirt off. Please.”

Lars cracks a grin at the sight of his reddened cheeks, but obeys nonetheless. He knows his body isn't much to look at — small and soft, with a little bit of residual baby fat and no muscle to brag about — but as he lets his shirt drop to the grungy carpet, the way James’ eyes rove across his bare chest makes him flush anew.

“You too,” Lars insists, already fiddling with the top button of James’ flannel. It's only when James closes a hand over his own that he realizes his own fingers are trembling.

It takes the two of them a second to get the thing off. James struggles with one of the sleeves, jostling Lars in his lap and making him laugh. James’ cheeks are flushed a brilliant shade of red. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. Here, just—” Lars’ hands come up to rest on James’ bare chest, thin fingertips splaying across the hot skin of his broad shoulders. “Lie down,” he says, pressing gently. “I’ll do the work.”

James does as he’s told. Lars shifts back so he can fumble with James’ fly, relishing the soft curse that James hisses out when Lars spits in his palm before curling one hand around the silky skin of his cock. His stomach jumps, abdomen going taut.

Lars huffs a laugh and grips him tighter, feeling the smooth roll of foreskin beneath his palm — a strangely comforting detail, compared to the unyielding stiffness of Dave’s cock. His eyes flick up, meeting James’, a hot strike of arousal hitting him square in the belly.

“I want you to fuck me,” he repeats, licking his lips. Before he can think better of it, he’s slipping his unoccupied hand into the tiny pocket of his shorts. “I— I brought...”

The little sachet of shoplifted lubricant is warm to the touch when he holds it up; sort of like a packet of ketchup or remoulade that’s been held for too long. For a second, he and James both just stare at it, the lamplight glinting off of the silver plastic.

“Fuck,” James finally says. “I’ve never…”

“Me neither.”

“But you— With me?”

Lars nods. “Yeah.” He’s still stroking at James’ cock, idly now. “I want this. I want…”

He falters, the sentence trailing off. He doesn't know how to explain it. Doesn't know how to put words to that particular hunger.

“Fuck,” James repeats. “We can— Yeah. If you want. Do you need me to, uh…?”

Lars shakes his head. “I know what I’m doing,” he says, though it comes out with far less confidence than intended.

Truthfully, he and Dave never got beyond the tease of a single spit-slicked finger before Lars would inevitably chicken out; something about the timing not being right, or not having any lube, or being too tired. Something about the little voice in the back of his head thinking _’I don't want the first time to be with you_.’

He’s watched the porn, though. He’s talked it through with Dave. He’s heard the jokes and laughed along. He knows the mechanics. He knows how to do this. And he took a shit two hours ago, so there's no excuse to back out now. He leans to the side so he can work his shorts down and off his legs, then repositions himself in a half-kneeling position over James’ thighs, ripping the sachet open with his teeth and coating his fingers in the warm, slick goo.

Now or never, he thinks. Put up or shut up.

He tries not to rush, but ends up rushing anyway. The first two fingers go in easy, and the third isn’t difficult, either; it doesn't really feel _good_ , per se, but it’s not bad. The way James is watching him helps. 

The room is quiet except for their breathing, and it's a relief when Lars finally withdraws his fingers and climbs off of James. He lies back against the pillows and draws his legs up high, urging James between the spread of his thighs.

“You want me to just... put it in?” James asks, his face a brilliant shade of red. He’s staring at Lars’ asshole like it might bite.

“Ja,” Lars says, adjusting his hips a little. His foot brushes against the bare skin of James’ hip. “Just go slow, okay?”

“Okay,” James says quietly. He licks his lips and strokes his cock a few times, then leans in, looking down to guide himself, the blunt head of him nudging gently up against Lars’ hole.

There’s resistance at first — more than Lars expected, given his preparations, and then James shoves just a little harder and the head pops in. Lars flinches abruptly.

“Shit,” James says, kind of pinched-sounding. “Does it hurt?”

Lars nods. It does; it kind of really fucking does, like a raw, burning sort of pain, because of course there wasn’t enough time or lube, but Lars just pulls James in closer anyways, bearing down until he slides all the way home. His palms feel sticky against James’ skin, fingernails making little crescent moons on his shoulders. His thighs are quaking.

“Okay?” Lars asks him again, panting openmouthed against his collarbone.

James nods mutely. “Yeah, you— You’re really tight,” he says breathlessly. “Fuck.”

His hips thrust forward a little and Lars feels it like a burning jolt running through his entire body, has to grunt _Åh_ and tighten his grip on James’ shoulders and say, “Wait, wait, just wait a second.”

“Sorry,” James says, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Lars says. “You’re just. You’re kind of big.” He huffs a laughs and shifts, almost imperceptibly, exhaling deep and slow as he wills himself to relax. James’ brow is furrowed as if in deep concentration.

“Can you,” Lars licks his lips. “Just— Slow.”

His toes curl at James’ first hesitant push, heels stiffly kicking out. He has to turn his face to the side to hide the way his eyes well up with tears.

It’s not because it hurts, he thinks, clutching tighter at James’ shoulderblades. It’s not because it’s bad, or wrong, or so painful he can't bear it. It’s just overwhelming. He swears he can feel every fucking inch of James sliding in and out, and it’s so perversely good it makes his chest tight.

“Are you okay?” James asks, halting completely.

It’s only then that Lars realizes he’s gone completely still. “Yeah,” he’s quick to say, voice thick. “Yeah, keep going. C’mon.”

James doesn't. “You're crying,” he says. His face is doing that awful thing again; shutting down, going blank, putting that guard back up.

He makes a move to pull away, to pull out, but Lars clings tighter, heels digging into his spine to stop him. “No, no, don't go,” he insists. “Don't stop. Please. I’m fine. It’s fine, okay?”

“I don't want to hurt you,” James says.

The whole situation suddenly seems unbearably awkward as he hovers over Lars, the two of them still wedged together as Lars clumsily wipes at his flushed cheeks.

“I’m fine, okay?” Lars repeats, reaching out to cup James’ face with damp palms. “ _Jeg lover._ I promise.”

It’s Lars who pushes their mouths together anew, swallowing down his embarrassment as he urges James on. His chest is already sticky with sweat from the anxiety of it all. It doesn’t take long for him to start rocking in time with James, the vicious burn seeming to mellow out as the two of them pick up the pace, Lars’ own cock soon welling up with precome between them while the bedsprings screech along in protest.

“Fuck,” he gasps up at the ceiling. “Fuck, c’mon, fuck me, just like that.”

He wants this bad. Wants to stay here forever, on his back in the shitty motel across the street, clutching at James’ skin and feeling him so deep it's like he’s in Lars’ fucking guts. It’s terrible, and wonderful, and here he is, crying in the middle of it all.

“Fuck,” James grunts. “ _Shit_ , Lars, you're so—”

His face is ducked and thrown into shadow, transfixed on watching where he’s sliding in and out. Lars raises a hand to tilt his chin up and drag him into a slack-jawed, messy kiss. He won’t last much longer, like this.

“Harder,” Lars pants out between them, his hand slipping down James’ chest, fingers drawn to the slick heat where they’re joined. “Hard as you can, okay?”

James makes a bitten-off grunt. He repositions his hands on either side of Lars' head and draws back, shifting his hips, then slams in.

Lars can't help the shaky cry that’s ripped from his throat, so violent his voice breaks in the middle. He lifts a hand to cover his own mouth and nods, urging James on, his legs pulled up and apart as far as they'll go. He’s mumbling curses into the sweaty flesh of his palm; half English, half dansk, none of it making any goddamn sense anyways. Everything is too hot and too fast, too hard. He feels like he can't breathe.

James’ pace falters for the briefest of seconds and he says, “Lars, I’m almost—”

“Keep going,” Lars chokes out, dropping his hand to reach down between them, closing a fist around his own leaking cock.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah, c’mon, c’mon—”

James thrusts in hard once, twice, three times, and then he shudders and groans deep in his chest as he comes, indescribably warm and wet inside. His head drops to rest against Lars’ shoulder as he works himself through it, mechanically pushing in and out, his breath coming in damp, shaky puffs.

Lars has to bite down hard on his lip to muffle his cry as he rocks back down onto James, his fist working at a frantic pace. It barely takes two more strokes before he’s coming all over his own stomach, his entire body shuddering with the force of it, muscles tensing anew.

James hisses in discomfort and moves to pull out, but Lars clings desperately on, their sweaty skin pressed together in shallow comfort.

“Stay,” he pants. “Just for a second, please— Stay.”

James pulls him into a clumsy hug and rolls them over, still joined, so that Lars won't be suffocated under his body weight. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Lars nods into his collarbone. He feels drunk, disoriented, and it has nothing to do with the Southern Comfort sitting on the bedside table.

They lie there for a second to catch their breath. In the dim light of the room, Lars swears the bed is spinning.

“I’m gonna,” he says nonsensically, pushing himself up on shaky forearms. He leans forward and James’ softened cock slips from his ass, followed by a trickle of wet. Lars shudders at the feeling and clumsily rolls off, messy thighs falling shut as he pulls himself up the bed a little. The bedsprings creak as he curls up, facing James.

“Are you okay?” James asks after a second, one hand tentatively reaching out to drift along the curve of Lars’ waist.

Lars nods into the pillow. His eyelids are drooping shut. “Yeah,” he says. “I… Yeah. Thank you. It's what I wanted.”

James’ curious fingers trail over his ribs, down to the softness of his belly. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish…”

Lars shakes his head. He nudges in closer, curling himself into James’ side and breathing in the sweat-clean smell of him. “Don't,” he says. “You don't have to say anything.” 

They lie there together in silence as the night drags on, both counting the days until September.

+

**Author's Note:**

> long-term motel stays are a form of homelessness. i’m sad. what's new?
> 
> come say hi on tumblr anytime @[shotgunmessiahs](http://shotgunmessiahs.tumblr.com) 💕


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